Birthday
by moonlighten
Summary: July, 2010: Scotland tries to organise France's birthday celebrations. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 48 of the Feel the Fear series.


**14th July, 2010; Paris, France**

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>Scotland wakes, as he always does, before France.<p>

He rises quietly so as not to disturb the other nation; an unnecessary courtesy, really, as France sleeps like the dead. True to form, he simply rolls into the warm depression Scotland has left in the mattress, instinctively seeking the most comfortable spot like a flower moving towards the sun, and then lies there, silent and still.

The same unnecessary consideration lends an uncharacteristic lightness to Scotland's steps as he walks to the kitchen, rolling his feet carefully from heel to toe.

In previous years, he wouldn't have even considered marking the occasion of France's 'birthday', partly because he never usually celebrated his own, so the prospect was something of a foreign one, but mostly because France never invited him to join him. Save for the year their bosses decided that the fourteenth of July should also mark the anniversary of the Auld Alliance, France had preferred to spend it either alone with his people or alongside some other lover whose company was evidently more agreeable than Scotland's.

However, since France had presented him with a gift on St Andrew's, Scotland could hardly ignore Bastille Day. Compromise was key to their redefined relationship, and reciprocation was a big part of that. France went hiking, so Scotland went shopping; France bought Scotland a bottle of his favourite whisky so Scotland... did something.

Quite what that might be was a question which had vexed him for the past couple of months. Despite the many centuries they'd been together, off and on, they were really still feeling their way with one another. Scotland had no clue about fashion, or cologne, or modern wine, or any of the other things that he'd thought might make a suitable present but then had to reassess because he had no idea what would constitute an example of the same which would fulfil France's exacting standards.

In the end, he'd decided to not bother with a present at all, as he knew he wouldn't be able to bear the inevitable expression of disappointment, which was something France had never learnt how to hide. Instead, he'd resolved to simply put himself at France's disposal for the day. And if that meant trudging around Paris to watch parades and fireworks, then so be it. Scotland does remain hopeful that France will see it as the perfect opportunity to spend the day in bed, ordering Scotland to cater to his every whim, never mind that was exactly how they'd spent the previous day and would be as much a gift to Scotland as France, besides.

Breakfast in bed, however, is a necessity, however they end up spending the day. Scotland's idea of romance is likely several hundred years out of date, the few skills he once had rusty with disuse, but he's seen enough films, and listened to Wales prattle on enough times, to know that it's an essential part of making a day special for your significant other.

The Buck's Fizz is easy enough, as is the bowl of strawberries. The freshly baked croissants are a different matter entirely. It would be easier, and no doubt more sensible, to pop out to one of the many patisseries that dot France's street to buy them, but that feels like cheating to Scotland, particularly as France had taught him the recipe during one of their ill-fated cooking lessons.

Scotland had even practiced at home in preparation, digging out utensils and appliances that hadn't seen light of day since his house warming party and thus were covered with a fine film of dust. Nothing in France's kitchen had a speck of dirt on it, and everything in it was infinitely more complicated than anything Scotland owned. The food processor was a sleek, futuristic looking affair that seemed to have at least ten more settings than something with the sole purpose of mixing and chopping should have by rights (which was four, by Scotland's calculations: Mix, chop, and mix and chop more vigorously), and it took Scotland several attempts to get it to do anything other than smugly beep to show its displeasure at his ineptitude.

As the flour, yeast and milk are whirring around (with minimal spillage evident, which Scotland is quite proud of as it's a first), Scotland rolls the butter in a few tablespoons of flour on the pristine marble counter top. It seems to be blending well, which is a good omen, and better than he usually manages.

Whilst he's clattering through the cupboards in search of tin foil to wrap the butter so he he can place it in the fridge, France says, "You do remember that it needs to chill for a few hours before you can use it. A little late for breakfast, I think."

Scotland scowls, partly because he _hadn't_ remembered that, and partly because he can't really provide breakfast in bed if the intended recipient refuses to stay there as he should. The expression is short-lived, however, unable to withstand the sight of France lounging against the kitchen table that greets him when he turns around.

He's helped himself to one of the glasses of Buck's Fizz, which Scotland can't find it within himself to be annoyed about, given that France is wearing nothing more than one of the sheets taken from his bed, wrapped low, and very, very loosely, around his hips. His skin is sleep-flushed, his hair mussed and curling at the ends, something which always irritates him, but makes Scotland's mouth run dry every time. (Eight months on, and he still can't quite believe he's allowed to see this, to see him so artless and unpolished. He doubts he'll ever get used to it, and he doesn't really want to.)

"A few hours I'm sure we can put to good use," France says, eyes glittering above his glass as he raises it to his lips to take a sip. "And still be in time to see the start of the parade."

Scotland is tempted to say screw the parade, and the croissants, too, but it is France's birthday, after all. He can compromise.


End file.
